A Call to Clap For

I had thoughts of heading out for ice cream this evening, and nearly had a foot out the door when the phone rang. It was a counselor from camp, calling to have us speak with Noah. It's been that kind of crazy week--what with my return to a very hectic, full-time job--that left my brain so drained that I completely forgot about the call. Noah sounded sooooo good. First thing he told me was that he went underwater. I asked him where and he told me "in the pool." I asked him how it felt and he said "cold." Noah told me that he went to the corral and saw a chicken that had laid some eggs. He brushed a horse in the corral and the horse's name is Buddy. Noah saw a waterfall and when I asked him where, he hold me "in the woodlands." When I asked him where he showers, he told me "in the bathhouse." When I asked how it was sleeping in a tent, he said "wonderful." The only thing that could equal this is having as good a call with Ariel when we speak to her in camp. But that's a ways off, so I'll have to anticipate optimistically. The week at work has been physically and psychically draining, and I don't know how or whether it will work out in time, but this call with Noah trumps all anxieties at work, drowns all fatigue, and brings me back to what always gets my heart singing and my spirit soaring: good news from, with, and/or about my kids. It just isn't more complicated than that for me. And I hope it never is.

Who Woulda Thunk It?

Hard to believe that the highlight of anyone's day could be peeing (repeatedly) into a cup under the watchful gaze of a minder at a drug testing site in a dismal office in downtown Brooklyn. But so it was for me, on a beautiful Thursday morning. I arrived at room 301 and was alone with the bare white-ish walls and the bland folding chairs until a couple came in. She sported a version of a do-rag and multiple rolls of stomach fat. He had bad teeth and an impatient attitude, which he took out on the squirming toddler in the stroller they rolled in with. He wandered over to the sign-in window and started reading the graffiti on the wall, which I hadn't noticed when I came in. He read it out loud. Maybe f this and that is a kind of lullaby in his household; I hope not. We were joined by four or five other young women, each with a stroller with either a baby or toddler in it. All of the adults were there to be drug tested. There were some solo guys in an outside waiting area, including a real stud with a tightly wound black stocking on his hand, a rhinestone encrusted pistol belt buckle, and a smattering of tattoos. Though I can pee freely-and often-every other day, this was the one time it took me three tries to fill the vial. Skinny young girl who accompanied me to and into the bathroom was very nice. I joked, "This can't be much fun for you." "No it's not," came the polite reply. I peed once, then drank some water to try to generate some more. Not quite there. So around the corner I went to an Arab-owned convenience store for some coffee. Guy pouring was nice; customized everyone's order with extra sugar or milk. Coffee was lousy, bitter, but added milk cut the bad taste a bit, and thankfully the coffee did the trick. Headed back to Manhattan to meet my friend Mickey for coffee (though I chose OJ). Always a joy to see him. Then I headed home, opting for the subway/bus method. Wouldn't you know, I just missed the bus after I got to Flushing and waited twenty minutes with--you guessed it--my now bursting bladder, for the next one. Trip home was fine, but evening just brought with it a complete collapse. Aggravating, routine arguments with Ariel about dinner: what's available for her to eat and her objections to each choice. So Len and I decided to walk into town with Noah and try our luck at al fresco dining during our town's restaurant night out. Not sure what happened, but something snapped in Noah. We couldn't convince him that any of the options was worth trying, and then it was like Deja Disney. He just became crazy, yelling, crying, grabbing me, aggressively hugging me, the whole nine yards. I don't much care about the embarrassment of these public displays of insanity, though I don't much enjoy them. We called Sam to come pick us up, and it seemed like he took forever to arrive. By then I disliked all my children. Ariel for bitching about dinner choices, Noah for losing his marbles, and Sam for taking his sweet time to rescue us. Rewinding to the earlier part of my day, it's funny to think that a room full of people whose public parenting styles were completely deflating--if not terrifying--could seem more appealing than my outwardly bucolic home life. But such are the ironies, inconsistencies and surprises that rock and roll my world...

Down the Rabbit Hole in Monthly Installments

Just when you think things can't get much worse for you as a parent, you reach a new low. Mine came at about 5:30 a.m. on a Monday morning. I couldn't sleep, since I kept going over in my head the weekend's missteps and aggravations, so I went down to the basement and turned on the boob tube. At least I wouldn't keep anyone else awake. As I channel surfed, I came across an infomercial from a guy who was selling his parenting program, which he of course developed after years of counseling parents in his private practice. He hit all the right buttons: "Is your child defiant? Is conflict a constant in your household? Do you find yourself repeating strategies that don't work?" And on and on. So I picked up the phone. Alice in Maine was lovely, commiserating with me in my misery. The program transformed her relationship with her own daughter. Yes, I could get my money back, once I submitted the required written evaluations. But I must fill in ALL the required fields; no blanks allowed. I don't think I believe the money refund promise, but I will get AMEX to help me argue that one. I did have enough presence of mind to decline the monthly phone support at $49.95, but I figure that even if I get stuck paying the three monthly installments of $119.95, I'm still way ahead, compared with private counseling. And who knows, maybe James Lehman can actually help me salvage my role as a parent. If not, my kids can tell the story of their desperate, gullible mama , to great guffaws, to whichever therapist(s) they choose to bitch about me to. As long as they do it on their own dime...